


The moment before it breaks

by FancifulRivers



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Gen, POV Second Person, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-20 11:03:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14893404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancifulRivers/pseuds/FancifulRivers
Summary: Harry's always had secrets.





	The moment before it breaks

It isn't until the middle of fourth year that you realise your shoddy healing spells no longer work at all. You frown in dismay, looking at the smears of red decorating your arm, tacky lines down your skin. They prickle and sting, the itch already coming, but you ignore that. Instead, you peel off your undershirt (good thing you decided to wear one today, you don't always), and use well-practised cutting spells to make ragged thin strips. Binding your arm takes only a few minutes and you ignore the blooms of red bleeding through. It is enough that it will not show through your robes, and that is all you care about.

You wonder why your carefully learnt, practised in secret healing spells no longer work. Is it because you can no longer claim intent behind the words and elegant curlicues of wand? You're going to have to be more careful, and you despise it. Your only saving grave is the Tournament, because it makes it that much easier to claim random injury. It won't work this time, not with your neat latticework of marching red lines, but you vow the next time, you will do it randomly, slashes and scratches that could have come from anything. You hate the chaos, but you hate the fear of discovery even more.

It's lucky that you decide that because Hermione notices one evening, an unfortunate slip when you can't help but scratch a stray itch on your calf and your robe hem rides up, revealing a still scabbed gash. She starts to interrogate you and you shrug, claiming you don't know where you got it (the Muggle razor in your book bag seems to call out to you). You still find yourself dragged down to the Hospital Wing while Hermione babbles something about infection. It makes your pulse throb in your ears like a hummingbird's flight and your fingers shake, but Madam Pomfrey notices nothing amiss. A tap of her wand and a smear of salve later, it's nothing but a fading white line. 

When everyone's gone to bed, you slip into the bathroom and draw four fresh ones on the tops of your thighs. Blood spills over your fingers, but you relish it, letting it paint your skin. It's several long minutes before you clean up and go back to bed and you're hollow-eyed and slack-faced the next morning, the shadows under your eyes standing out like bruises. Sometimes you wonder if you could get away with punching yourself in the face.

"You okay, mate?" Ron asks, hastily swallowing a mouthful of scrambled egg and you nod, pushing your own listlessly around the plate. He doesn't believe you (who would?) but he chalks it up to the Tournament. Not for the first time, you thank the person trying to kill you. It's useful, being shoved into a tournament you're far too young for, that you've survived through sheer dumb luck so far. Your death wish is big enough to swallow you whole and you can't even make yourself care.

When you discover what you have to do for the second task, you almost want to walk into the lake and let yourself drown. It'd be poetic in a way, walking into the frigid water until you sink down and down and down, bubbles trailing up to the surface. But you have a feeling it's not that easy and you accept the handful of gillyweed Dobby deposits between your fingers. It's cold and slimy and you have to force yourself to swallow it. Gills sprouting is one of the oddest sensations you've ever experienced, and the relief when you sink into the chilly water and can breathe properly warms you.

You save Ron. It's not easy, but you know that he'd do the same for you. You also save the girl, the tiny blonde-haired girl who looks like she's sleeping and bears an uncanny resemblance to Fleur Delacour.  _She's just a child,_ you think, and your heart fills with sudden, fierce anger. It's not  _fair_ to involve her, this girl who doesn't even look old enough to attend Hogwarts, in a competition where she can drown, where her last fading moments could be darkness and water and the cold, dark stares of the merpeople surrounding her.

You don't say anything when you breach the surface. Fleur Delacour hugs you so tightly you nearly lose your breath, babbling about grindylows in broken English. Her eyes are huge and panicked, her hair sopping. You don't want to tell her it's nothing, because it is, but you could do nothing less.

Gryffindor throws a party. All you want to do is collapse in bed and sleep for a thousand years. Sleep forever. Maybe when you wake up, Voldemort will have finally crumbled into dust and you won't have to worry about being thrust into a battle you have no hope of winning anymore. The Ministry says he's dead. You know they're full of shit. 

Instead, you make an appearance, drink a butterbeer, and take a shower. It's in the shower you can't stop yourself anymore. The water's warm but it reminds you of the lake, the needling spray matting your hair down over your scar and puddling in the hollow of your collarbones. Your razor's in your hand before you can think, the water swirling down the drain clotted with red. It makes you feel sick to look at. Over the noise of the shower, you can hear your dorm mates. They've come upstairs.

You don't think you've ever gotten out of a shower and re-dressed so fast.

The next day, Malfoy trips you in the halls with a well-placed jinx. His laughter hurts your ears as you scramble up, gathering your belongings. Your fingers itch for your wand. Ron has no such self-restraint, wand clenched in his fist and pointed before you can raise a hand to stop him. Of  _course_ this is the tableau Snape walks in on.

"Ten points from Gryffindor," he hisses. You don't know how it happens, but you end up alone in the corridor with him, panting for breath and wincing as you are fairly sure that the unforgiving stone beneath you has re-opened your wounds.

"You're bleeding, Potter," Snape says. You look down and freeze. In the turmoil, your robes have slipped up and you can see dark, sluggish red soaking the hem. Your vision darkens around the edges and you sag, dimly aware of your professor swooping in, muttering something about foolish Gryffindors. As if it is your fault Malfoy decided to trip you. 

When the world stops spinning, you discover that you aren't in the Hospital Wing, but Snape's office. He helps you to a sofa, directing you to sit there and stay put.

"And don't touch anything," he adds. His eyes snap with a fire you don't want to touch. Your legs throb. You can feel blood trickling into your sock. At least it's Dudley's old one today. You don't care about your old ones as much.

When Snape returns, it's with an armful of first aid supplies. He orders you to lift up your robes, to roll up your trouser legs. You do so in short, reluctant motions, wincing as the fabric sticks.

"Those aren't new," he states. Your face is hot as you don't answer. You can see splotches of bruise spreading over your knees and down your shins as he lifts up your legs, setting you sideways on the couch. "Did you acquire them in the second task?"

An easy out. You want to say yes. You want to nod. But he knows as well as you do that Pomfrey gave you a going-over after you splashed your way out of the lake and she would have noticed blood streaking down your ankles. The question is a trap.

You shake your head, your neck creaking with the motion.

"How then?" Snape asks. His voice is almost gentle- for him, anyway. He smoothes bruise balm over the purple stains and you watch them fade to yellow, some disappearing entirely.

"I-" The words stick in your throat. You don't know what to say. How to say it. Of all the people who might discover your secret, you never thought it could be  _Snape_.

"What happened, Potter?" He repeats.

"I did it," you admit, mumbling into your lap. He doesn't ask you to repeat yourself. Just murmurs a healing spell- one of the few that you yourself had learnt, that no longer worked spiraling from your wand- and the wounds knit themselves together with a slow, maddening itch. He covers them with another flick of his wand.

"You should talk to Madam Pomfrey," he says. You shake your head. 

"I- I can't," you say. Panic thickens your throat, tugs at your spine. "There's- there's nothing wrong with me. Sir." He arches one eyebrow, bitterly sarcastic, and you wince.

"I beg to differ, Potter," he says, but there's not nearly as much bite to his words as you expected. "Madam Pomfrey will be discreet, I can assure you. St. Mungo's does not have the promise of confidentiality, not with your fame." He spits the last word like an epithet and you cringe back into the sofa, picking at one of your nails.

"I don't need-" you try to say, but the words stick in your throat again, because you know you're lying.

"Can I talk to you instead?" You ask. His mouth goes slack. You've genuinely shocked him, you think, and the thought is strangely amusing.

"Why?" He asks. You shrug.

"I just- I can't talk to Madam Pomfrey," you mumble. You don't know why you think you can talk to a man who hates you, but perhaps that's why. There's nothing you can say that could make him think any  _less_ of you, right? His opinion's already hit rock bottom.

"On a trial basis," Snape says. Your eyes widen. You never expected him to  _agree_. "If it is not working- if it is not helping you- you  _will_ see Madam Pomfrey. And  _I_ will determine whether or not it is helping you."

"I- Deal," you say. You wonder what you've done as he packs away the medical supplies. You let your pants legs fall down, let your robes hide your multitude of sins.

"If you feel the urge again, you will come and tell me first," he says without turning.

"Yes, sir," you say.

"And Potter?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Two points to Gryffindor."


End file.
